


you will have but a half-life, a cursed life

by harrowedwakandan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, i wish they'd gone more into the idea of oriande but ok, i'll just play with this scrap of lore in my sandbox, i'm always a slut for true neutral entities, playing with haggar's character while ignoring the hell out of s8, that's cool, this is lowkey old but i still like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 19:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrowedwakandan/pseuds/harrowedwakandan
Summary: Greatness is not inherently good, and the Sages of Oriande physically couldn't care less about war crimes.





	you will have but a half-life, a cursed life

She blinked and laid before her was a strangely symmetrical landscape -  perfectly mirrored sky and land. She blinked again and saw the white lion before her, proud and strong but the sight of the Guardian was nothing to what she could sense with her spirit.

(she is twenty-six again, her hand on the glass and He in front of her, nebulous and dark but  _ hers _ and the inexplicable taste of zanzifruit on her tongue and her womb empty, empty, empty-)

“You’re him,” said the witch, dazed. “You’ve come back to me.” The words had hardly left her mouth when she realized that on her tongue was the sharp taste of metal, not the spicy tanginess of the zanzifruit -

(but it hardly mattered. it was not  _ him _ , but the Guardian was of her and she was of it. like calls to like and kin knows kin.)

-and the lion roared and leapt, and the witch ran forward, her hood flying back and her bone-white hair streaming behind her. She opened her arms to embrace the great cat only for her arms to go straight through it. Haggar closed her eyes as she fell, fell on her knees into shallow icy water. She opened her eyes to her distorted reflection and froze at the sight of it.

“You extend your arms to embrace us. Yet you have made a mockery of us,” said a voice that was many in one. The witch straightened, holding her hands in front of her, not trusting the reflection in the clouded water. Even with the dim lighting and opaque water running off them in rivulets it was unmistakable that her skin was brown, beautiful brown, that her nails were short - regulation length, a practical length. She brushed back a wayward lock of dark hair, unbleached from quintessence. 

She looked up to see black, thick vines all around her, with featureless multicolored faces - sienna, dun, umber, mahogany - intertwined within the column. The Altean facial marks on every mask glowed in the gloom.

Honerva slowly got to her feet, turning to take in the column of vines that enclosed her completely stretched as high as she could see.

“You have made a mockery of us, Child of Altea,” the ethereal voice said again. “And you dare show the impudence of not kneeling before your ancestors?”

“Mockery,” she said, and even her voice was different - uncorrupted. “What crimes have I committed that have so mocked and dishonored my ancestors, the great Alchemists of Oriande, that they rebuke their child who embraced them with open arms?” She steeled herself not to flinch at the unfamiliar-yet-familiar intonation of her words. 

“Your corruption,” answered the voice. “Your tainted motives, the hands of creatures opposed to the very nature of Oriande being on you -  _ this _ is your crime. You dare force yourself past the Stone Guard without a token, you deign to walk this hallowed ground in a state of uncleanliness-”

“And yet,” Honerva said, “I stand here before you.” The masks on the vines made no movements, their mouths solemn and straight. Except for a few, with ever-so-slight smiles and a handful of overt frowns.  “So I have passed your trials, crime or no. Am I then to be redeemed in your eyes?”

“That depends on you, Child,” said the voice. “You carry the secrets of Oriande within you, but whether you are worthy of their revelation remains to be seen.”

“I have passed your trials,” snapped Honerva, surprised at her own sudden swell of ire, “though I am quite satisfied with my own abilities-”

“Abilities born of corruption,” replied the Sages of Oriande as one, “Abilities that do not reflect who you are, that do not reflect your heritage as an alchemist - as a would be Sage. If you were satisfied with said abilities, you would not be before us,” they mused. “No, you are here for our blessing. For our  _ might. _ ”

Honerva tucked her hands inside her sleeves before digging her nails into her palms. “I am.”

“Would you turn your back on all those who came before you to cling to the power afforded to you by degenerates borne of the space between worlds?”

Honerva made her expression stone-like at the phrase, her eyes like flint. “What is this, if not a space between worlds?”

The vines shifted. “What is your implication?” asked the many-as-one, silky and dangerous. A miniscule voice, so small that Honerva thought it to be her own sense of self-preservation, murmured: “Careful, careful…..”

“What I mean,” she began, changing tacks abruptly, “is that as alchemists we are always moving forward. Progress is our common goal, by... nearly any means necessary. Am I not a worthy subject for observation?” she asked. “Allow me to reconcile the corruption you so revile with the sacred arts of Oriande. Grant me the tools to atone for my crimes,” she said, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the midnight purple of her hair fading away into white. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest, but she stayed still, waiting. 

The dark vines shifted again; the masks faded away, leaving only the glowing marks for a handful of her rapid heartbeats before they disappeared. Honerva waited as the darkness advanced, but there was no answer, and she opened her mouth to snarl in protest but-

-she was on the steps of the temple, her shroud dry as ancient bone, her hood draped over her long white hair. 

_ Rejection, _ she thought to herself, and almost laughed. Sons were supposed to follow in their mothers’ footsteps, not the other way around. She took a deep breath, the calm before an unleashing of unholy fury-

She  _ felt _ it this time, a blossom of warmth expanding and intensifying until it felt as though her very veins were alight. Her skin cast off the violet shade of corruption and her eyes burned until they were once again gold. Her facial marks blazed hottest but she felt them still extending down past her lips. Her hair was still white, still cascading over her shoulders. 

A half-reprieve. Better than an outright rejection. 

Honerva took in a deep breath and began her descent down the stairs.  _ My son. The colony. My people. I will have them all back. I will have it all. _

As soon she gathered herself and had  _ tessered _ back to the ship where her subordinate generals waited, the tallest peak of great temple of Oriande split with a resounding  _ crack _ . 


End file.
